Unfurled

by Michelle Bailat-Jones

  The man with spectacles smiles. “Oh, sure.” His eyes scan my face and light up with the joy of recognition. Brace yourself, I think, you have heard this before. But instead, he smiles again and says, “You must be Ella.”

  With this, I am enveloped into the great mass of them, become the center of their words and outstretched arms, of the scent of patchouli and flannel, fleece and wool. Everyone is saying how happy they are to finally meet me. Everyone wants to shake my hand. They’re all too close. I try to step backward but the man in the purple sweater is behind me, smiling shyly. I shuffle to the right, shuffle to the left, try to find an exit.

  The blonde woman steps in front of me. “I’m Greta.”

  I shake her hand, although I think I’ve shaken it already twice.

  “So …” she says.

  “So …” I say.

  “You got the herb and vegetable tags?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Those were mine. I mean, I make them to sell at the stands.” When I say nothing, she shrugs, “Oh, it’s no matter. It’s not the time. Did you have a long drive?”

  What can I say? “It isn’t so long.”

  I swallow, I breathe. I reach for one of the dogs with the flat of my hand. Trapp’s small round forehead presses back against my palm and I am able to say, “So you all know Maggie? This is where she lives?”

  A general muttering of agreement rises up. They flick a few glances back and forth from one another. Maybe I’m supposed to know this already.

  Press, press, press against Trapp’s head. Feel the soft of his fur. “Can someone tell me where to find her? Or let her know that I’m here.”

  A kind of silence rolls out from their five faces. They look at one another, they shift in their stances.

  The man with the beard says, “You drove down by yourself? Caroline or Neil couldn’t come with you?”

  Caroline? I shake my head, utterly confused.

  He says, “Oh, that’s too bad. I hope it was okay coming on your own. Maggie wouldn’t have liked that.”

  But the moon-faced woman interrupts, “Maggie’s not here today. She’s away on farm business.” Her face is dry, her lips very chapped.

  Greta smiles. “But she’d want us to ask you to stay and wait for her.”

  So I know we’re talking about the wrong Maggie. That all of this has been some kind of mistake. There must be another woman who looks just like me.

  But those five faces are all nodding at me, in unison. Smiling at this idea and agreeing with one another. The man with round spectacles takes off his hat; his hair is bright red underneath. He says, “You’ll stay won’t you? She’ll be back tomorrow. We have a guest cabin. You can stay one night, right?” His eyes are so solemn. Too solemn. I remember the same mixture of steady concentration and vague emotion in the expressions of the men’s faces at the 23rd Street Project.

  I can’t stay, I think. Of course I can’t stay. But my mother has been living here at Friends’ Farm for nearly ten years; she’s managed to create a home for herself here and I think—the thought rises up like a physical sensation—I think I deserve to know what After really looks like. I agree to stay.

  Two of them clap their hands and Greta says, “Wonderful! Now let’s all go back to the store and introduce ourselves properly.”

  This is what I learn: the commune is composed of ten members, seven of whom I meet right away out on that road and in the General Store, more women than men, and they range in age from thirties to sixties, although Maggie is clearly one of the eldest.

  Greta tells me that Maggie and another woman, Anna, are off attending a winter farmer’s market.

  “We do this year-round, and all over the country really. We have stalls and buyers up and down the coast.”

  Tom, the red-haired man, says, “Our farthest customer is in Maine, but they order jams and honeys and we can just ship that stuff.”

  “Anyway,” Greta continues, “This week was Maggie’s turn. She was in Idaho and Washington last week, California now. So that’s the way the cookie crumbles.” She laughs and two others laugh with her.

  I watch the bearded man, whose name is Hal, lead Trapp by the collar through the rows of homemade candies. There is peanut brittle and caramel and salt water taffy. Trapp is sniffing it all, nosing his way but not daring to actually lick or steal anything. The man gets him to a bin and pulls out what looks like a dog biscuit. Daisie is being caressed by multiple hands and is quivering with bliss, her eyes halfway closed, ears laid down.

  We are inside a large A-frame building, in a room separated into two halves. On this half is the store, with large wooden shelves lined with goods. The gourd utensils are here. The sachets of potpourri, those unmistakable jam jars. Beeswax candles and homemade soaps. All the odd objects and goods I found in the cabin. I observe and comment and admire because this is what seems to be expected of me. There are knitted hats and scarves and even sweaters. Cloth wall hangings and table runners.

  “Elizabeth is our weaver,” Greta explains, pointing at the woman with thick glasses and birthmark. “William is the woodworker.” She indicates a tall black man standing behind the check-out counter. He gives me a short nod.

  “And yourself?”

  “I’m the gardener,” she says. “I make all the planting and harvesting decisions. Except for the Christmas trees. That’s William’s territory. I should have said he’s an arborist and a woodworker.”

  “Everyone has a specific job?”

  “That’s how we work. Without that as our foundation we would crumble as a community. We have some students who help us, especially in the summers when there is so much land work to do.”

  She tells me before I ask that Maggie is their accountant. “She takes care of all the money. But she’s also my second hand at planting and gardening decisions. She has quite the green thumb!”

  Beyond the General Store, the other half of the room is clearly a dining area. Tables and chairs and coffee pots on a side bar, and carafes for water or juice. A bookshelf fills an entire wall, paperbacks lined up along each row, magazines stacked in piles. Near the door which seems to lead into a kitchen is a large green chalkboard. The days of the week are laid out with various chores: breakfast, lunch, dinner, dishes, garbage and so forth. Next to the tasks are the names, changing for each day. I can see that on Monday Maggie made breakfast.

  People mill over from the store to the dining room and begin to sit in the chairs and around the tables. I am asked to take a seat at a round table between Anna and Tom. The dogs follow me and Daisie, who has had enough attention from strangers, sits at my feet, presses her shoulder against my knee.

  “We didn’t plan anything special for supper,” Tom explains. “We didn’t know we’d have a guest.”

  “You don’t need to do anything special for me.”

  A man, whose name I later learn is Isaac, approaches and points to Daisie. “These are your animals. That’s what Hal said. I take care of the animals here at the farm.” His speech is monotone and his eyes unblinking.

  I tell him that yes, I’m a veterinarian. “And what animals do you have?”

  “We have chickens. We have goats. We have cats. No one has a dog, but if someone wanted to, we have agreed to say yes.”

  I try to think of something else to say, but nothing comes. Eventually Isaac nods at me and says, “Being a vet is a good job. I’m glad to hear you’re a vet.” Then he walks away.

  Elizabeth leans in, “Issac works very hard to communicate efficiently.”

  Tom nods. “He doesn’t always know what to say. But he tries really hard.”

  I accept a pre-supper mug of cinnamon tea. Ask more questions about everyone’s role. Elizabeth proves to be a great source of information. She is so relaxed it is difficult for me to decide what her illness might be. Because everyone here most certainly has an illness. This is what brings them together. There is no grandiose social living construct, no socialist ideals except those necessitated by the e
ccentricities of their disorders. A new experiment, Erica Reza called it. It seems to be working.

  Across the table during the meal sits a woman named Lilah. Greta introduced her to me when I first came in but she hurried off to finish cooking the evening meal and only returned a few moments ago. She is a tiny creature, and clearly the youngest here. She might even be younger than me. Her cheekbones look painful, her lips are stretched and too red, and her wrists so thin I fear they will break if she lands one too hard against the wooden tabletop. When she came out of the kitchen carrying a huge cauldron of soup, I’d nearly rushed over to help her. And then she’d spent a long time arranging it on the table, pushing and fussing over it and setting out napkins into three perfect stacks beside it. Eventually, she sat down, tapped her hands five times, palms down on the wood, and finally started eating. Some of the members bowed their heads in prayer, others didn’t, but they waited for the prayers to finish. Not Lilah. She started eating, breaking bread into hunks and dipping it into her soup and then taking long drinks from a tall glass of milk next to her plate.

  I watch her. She alternates soup with milk, never once taking two gulps of milk or two spoonfuls of soup. She speaks to no one and no one speaks to her. When her bowl and glass are empty, she stands up and carries them into the kitchen.

  Elizabeth and Tom are telling me about their plans for renting out some of the beehives later in the spring, about the need to keep the local orchards well pollinated. I nod and listen and when Isaac, seated next to Tom, leans in to ask questions about the veterinary needs of honeybees, I must focus completely on him. His direct gaze requires this. So it is a shock when Lilah appears beside me and moves in between Elizabeth and myself; she leans down, her face close to mine. There are violet semi-circles, like bruises, below her eyes.

  “If you want to talk about your mother, come outside. I’m going to smoke.”

  Everyone has played my game. I called my mother Maggie and they called her Maggie to me. Despite everyone knowing odd things about me like where I work, where I live and the name of my pets, they have mostly behaved like I am just some disinterested visitor, someone here to see about selling land to the commune or retailing their products.

  I excuse myself so quickly the dogs must leap out of the way as my chair screeches across the polished floor. Lilah moves with little steps, rotating her feet outward. Elegant but a little choppy, and I feel oversized and clumsy, the way I always feel around small women.

  Outside we sit on a verandah. Benches with rounded backs and lumpy cushions. The air is harsh and cold, but smells fresh. A pile of blankets awaits and Lilah takes the first one and throws it over her head. There is a slit cut out of the middle and arm holes. She hands me another one and I sit and put it over my lap like a normal blanket. She is sitting cross-legged on the bench and arranges the blanket around her like a teepee.

  “Can I ask you something?” she says, pulling a long thin cigarette from somewhere inside her teepee.

  I nod. But she doesn’t ask anything right away and I wonder whether she has seen my head move in the dim light. Beyond the small porch it is pitch black, and only a small lamp above our heads casts a weak yellow light. There are no insects in this cold December air, only the crisp dark line of trees across the road. “Ask away,” I say, hoping to sound relaxed.

  “What are you, two, three months along?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I’m not clairvoyant, don’t worry,” she says, sniggering and standing abruptly. She reaches out to the railing and slaps the wood. Once with her right hand and once with her left, her cigarette stuck between her lips. She sits back down. “I’m not hiding here to keep a secret like that from the rest of the world. And I’m not crazy either.” Here she gives me a stern glance. “I’m just really good at guessing things like this.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “I just can. It’s a body thing. The body moves differently when you’re pregnant.” I feel her look at me, although I do not return the glance. “You did know you were pregnant, right?”

  “I am only barely.”

  She smiles. “Good. I once spilled the beans to someone in serious denial.” She stands and performs her slapping gesture on the railing.

  “You had something to tell me about Maggie?”

  She sits back down again and inhales from her cigarette. “I like Maggie. She’s got her head on right.” A pause. A short laugh. “For someone with delusions.”

  I shift in my seat.

  “Sorry,” she says. She does not sound sorry. “I only talk like this because I’m jealous. My therapist tells me this. Let me repeat something for you: I am jealous of people with incurable disorders.” She rubs her cigarette out into a coffee can filled with sand. Reaches for another. “It’s like this,” she says, holding the thin cigarette up for me to inspect. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a cigarette.”

  “I’m talking about the aesthetic. A perfect form. Elegant.”

  “Not very sturdy though,” I say.

  “Don’t I know it?”

  I am shivering now, but in sympathy. I hope she’s getting the right kind of help. But I am thankful too because my patients cannot do this, my animals are mute and usually fixable.

  After lighting her second cigarette, Lilah squints at me, “I have something to tell you, but I have another question first.”

  “I’m not sure I can answer your questions.”

  “It isn’t a hard one this time. And maybe it won’t be a surprise.”

  “Did you know about this place?” She stands and slaps the railing. “Did you know about Maggie living here?”

  I reach a hand for that railing but retract it before making contact. I consider telling her the truth, that I thought my mother was missing or dead, that I was sure she was safely wrecked and rotting deep beneath the ocean of my life. How I preferred this story to any other, no matter how many times it was proven wrong. But I say nothing, staring out at the night. The darkness beyond this bench is so complete my eyes don’t know what to do with it. They just stretch and stare and hope. But nothing takes shape. Nothing is defined.

  Lilah answers for me. “I didn’t think so. Some of us have wondered.”

  “But everyone seems to know me.”

  She nods. “We have to believe one another here. That’s part of the deal.”

  I look at her. Everyone has their trades.

  “So how did you find out?” There is a pause. “I guess that makes two questions. Sorry.” She stands and slaps the railing again.

  “My dad died,” I say. Three simple words. A possessive, a noun, and a verb. Is there another way I might move those words around and come up with an acceptable phrase?

  “Did you know your dad?”

  I cannot answer right away and Lilah takes this for something else. “My dad wasn’t around much either. His money was, but not him.”

  “No,” I say, and there is violence in my voice. “My dad was around.”

  Lilah waits a moment. Then, “Lucky you.” After a pause, she says, “Some of us met your dad, he came once or twice. But Maggie never said when, never invited him to eat with us.”

  Lilah is on her third cigarette and all this furious smoking is starting to annoy me. She holds up the cigarette, “The skinny ones don’t last long, do they?”

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “At least I’m not throwing up anymore.” Her voice has grown small. “Stains the teeth. Not a pretty sight. And very hard to hide, even in footlights.” Here she stands again, letting the blanket fall around her bony frame. She raises her arms and then one leg; it rises with a gentle curve, flicks and swivels behind her, when it comes down she rises on her toes. But her supporting leg trembles and she bring the other one down quickly. She slaps the railing again, first right and then left. Lifts her cigarette to her mouth and draws hard.

  “So what did you want to tell me?” I ask, resisting the urge to wave the smoke away from
my face.

  She pulls deep on her cigarette, breathes the smoke out. “Maggie writes everything down. Everything.”

  “And?”

  “And she keeps it in her cabin. Everything she writes down.”

  “How long have you known her?” I am thinking about trust. About how this community works, and I’m guessing that Lilah won’t last very long here. But it isn’t my business.

  “Four years. Nearly four years. That’s how long I’ve been here. It’s not easy, this communal living thing. Maggie’s one of the founders. She’s got insight.”

  I shake my head. This is too much. My mother knows nothing of communal living.

  Lilah sits back down inside her teepee. “So were your parents still together? Or what? Maggie explained about a cabin up in Washington, on the ocean, that we could use if we needed a break from the commune.”

  “He leant it to her?”

  “A few of us have gone. For a day or two. Always alone. But I wondered if when she went, your dad was there, too. That’s another thing I’ve never figured out.”

  Maybe they were together in a way that I won’t be able to understand. And certainly not Lilah. I shrug and toss out, “It’s complicated.”

  “Things are never as complicated as you think they are. We learn that on day one.”

  I don’t try to disagree with her.

  She laughs, just to herself. But she doesn’t speak. She isn’t with me anymore. She’s with her own story. I watch her for a moment, then I say, “I’ll go back inside.”

  She snaps to me, though, watching me for a moment, holding my gaze. Lilah’s hands are twittering around inside her teepee for another cigarette. “It isn’t her fault, you know. It’s a disease. You should learn this. You wouldn’t blame someone for being hurt in a car accident, would you? Think of it like that. It happened to her.”

  Lilah’s sentence is interrupted by the hooting of an owl off in the forest beyond the building. Long and low, it echoes throughout the night.